Chapter 11d- All is destined

The Story Is Pre-Written

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The sadaqa story

Throughout their time in the blessed cities, Shehnaz, Nazia, Soni, and Saji had been searching for opportunities to give sadaqa. They wandered through the Harram, looking for those who truly needed help—wanting to be the means through which Allah could ease someone's burden, lighten someone's load.

The Harram was a place of profound sanctity, beautiful beyond words. Yet choosing whom to give to wasn't easy. Everyone there carried their own story, their own need. The group had been entrusted with sadaqa money—some on behalf of others, some their own—and they moved carefully, looking for those who seemed to need it most. The elderly who still worked despite their weariness. The tired souls laboring for their daily sustenance.

In both Makkah and Madinah, they handed over the money quietly, in swift motions, ensuring no eyes lingered and no attention was drawn. Prophet Muhammad (PBUH) said: "...a person who practices charity so secretly that his left hand does not know what his right hand has given".

On their last day in Madinah, Nazia still had one hundred riyals left to give. She had come close to handing it over twice—once to a man, then to another—but something held her back. They were young, capable. She wanted this money to reach someone who truly needed it, someone for whom it would make a real difference.

She took one last glance at the Masjid, her heart heavy with the thought of leaving. That's when Saji said gently, "You can give it the next time you are here."

The words settled over all of them like a quiet promise. Next time. The thought of returning to Makkah and Madinah someday filled them with a bittersweet longing. They turned and walked away from the Harram one last time, their steps slow, their hearts full.

Soon after, they were on their way to the Madinah airport. At the terminal, they moved toward the Zamzam collection area, only to realize they had to pay for it—12.5 riyals per container.

Nazia looked down at the hundred-riyal note still folded in her hand. And then it made sense.

She handed over the money, a quiet understanding washing over her. Everything has a destination. This money was always meant to be spent here, in this blessed land, for this blessed water. It was never going to leave without fulfilling its purpose.

Everything had a reason. Everything was written—and written for the best. Always.

Tawakkul. Always tawakkul, their hearts whispered in unison.

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